Telling Tales

On Saturday, after a long day of swimming, Neill and Jackson (Becky’s son) raced inside to find me.

Neill: “Mama, can I go to Jackson’s house for dinner?”

Jackson: “Please, please can he come?”

I looked at the sunburned and tired little boys and said “No, its already late, you probably should just stay home.”

Then in unison it started:

I love shopping for bathing suits. I love it like a cat loves a bath, like a 2 year old loves naptime or like my husband loves complete strangers giving him hugs. The very process of finding that perfect suit is poetic. There are many things to consider before purchasing a piece of material so small even the larger ones would be considered indecent in some countries. There’s the print, the color, the amount of medication you will need to feel comfortable wearing that thing in public.

Not only does it cling, it’s tiny too. I’m not talking about just the bikini. Those became a thing of the past after having my first child. Since then my tummy has more closely resembled a deflated balloon with a sad face for a belly button. And this is why I opt for a one piece but even those don’t hide the parts I think they should.

When my oldest was in preschool, his teacher sent home a paper feather and directions for the children to decorate it with anything found around the house. According to the steps, it was critical that this should be completed by the child and not the parent. I obliged, and the next day we turned in a feather decorated with dry rice, beans and a few sequins we found.

That afternoon I walked into the classroom to find all the little feathers hung proudly on a wall. I was in shock! Apparently, my little boy was going to school with 4 year old equivalents of Picasso. There were feathers that looked like they belonged on Bob Mackie couture and some were so detailed it was as if they had been plucked right off a turkey. And there in the center was my little boy’s feather. It was like a pop up camper surrounded by million dollar homes. 

So the afternoon went something like this:

Picked up the kids from school. Drove all the way home. Unpacked the car, went inside, let the dog out, looked at the mail, changed into comfortable clothes, watered the plants, called Becky, swept the floor, thought about what I’d make for dinner and one hour later as I was just about to hit defrost, my middle child says, “My photos for my Tennessee Notebook are due tomorrow. I need 10 photos of me at interesting places in Wilson County.”

I immediately saw the other two children look up from their perch upon the sofa. My eldest appearing more attentive than she had been in weeks. My youngest literally grabbing a bag of popcorn, as he knew this show was about to get good.

When Jack Norworth penned the tune, “Take me out to the ballgame,” I wonder if he pictured a little league set of 11 year olds; mouths stuffed with Big League Chew, black out under their eyes and grass stains on white baseball pants?

Like a lot of you, our spring and summer months are packed full of sports. When my oldest started playing ball, I wasn’t prepared for how much time we would spend eating ballpark faire like hot dogs, hamburgers and sunflower seeds.

At mile 3 my second toe on both feet went numb. Before some of you elite runners start questioning the stability, size and toe box of my shoe, I DID the legwork and research. I spent more than I should have on my latest pair of running shoes that were guaranteed to get me to the finish line without so much as a blister. The shoes didn’t exactly deliver what they promised, but I’m not one to cry over lost toenails.

When I noticed the big “Mile 7” sign, as sweat was streaming down my face and burning my eyes,  I thought, “Why in God’s name am I trying to run a half marathon… again? What am I trying to prove? I’ve done this twice before! Geez, I’ve run a full marathon! So who is this for?  Maybe Angel’s right. Maybe all runners and late blooming athlete wannabes are insane. Then again, Angel also says this about people who cook from scratch, smile too much or hug strangers.”

It’s 7:30 in the morning. The kids are patiently waiting by the back door, teeth brushed, hot breakfast in the first stages of the digestion process and backpacks sit neatly at their feet. Meanwhile, the matriarch of the family zips her bag, gives her makeup and perfectly coordinated outfit a quick check in the spotless bathroom mirror and ushers her compliant children to the car.

On the ride to school, a “Learn how to speak French” CD plays and the children begin a French dialogue with their mother. Children and parent giggle when the youngest asks if French toast is just called ‘toast’ when made in France.

I’ve been on a mission since the birth of my first child almost 11 years ago. As hard as I’ve tried to complete this mission, I fall short every time. Actually, I usually fall head first into a big bowl of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. ‘What is this mission’ you might ask. [Begin Theme Music from Mission Impossible] I’m on a mission… TO LOSE WEIGHT! And while Ethan Hunt was a mastermind at defusing bombs and retrieving deadly genetically engineered viruses, dieting while stuffing fistfuls of candy into plastic eggs, serving up slice after slice of ooey gooey pizza or forgoing a late night dance with a 3 Musketeer, would leave even him waving a white flag of surrender.

By BECKY ANDREWS

Many times in life adults will look in the mirror, throw their hands up and whisper -- or scream -- “that’s it, I can’t take anymore. I give up!” This is usually in response to a situation life has thrown and for one reason or another, you feel overwhelmed and just want to fall on the ground, assume the fetal position and maybe even suck your thumb. (At least that’s what some people do. I prefer dive head first into a big piece of chocolate cake.)

This has happened to just about every person I know; male and female. While we usually resist the urge to “give up,” the cloud of guilt that hovers for even considering quitting still lingers long after the once impossible task is conquered.

By Angel Kane
Wilson Living Magazine

In our house, we have lots of rules. My favorite rule by far is the law of equals. It is not a rule that I established, but over time has taken hold and I have come to cherish it. It goes something like this….

“Take the dog out Neill”

“But I’ve taken him out two times today and Zoe has only taken him out once. It‘s her turn, Zoeeeeee come take out the dog! Mama said!”

Once upon a time there was a little boy who, at 6 years old was ready for the rite of passage all children look forward to. He was anxious for a visit from that enigmatic character he had heard all his snaggle toothed little friends talk about. He was ready to see the tooth fairy. Well, maybe not ready to see her, but definitely ready to see what prize she’d be leaving behind. So begins his quest to loosen a tooth.

At least once a week since Christmas, he will run to me and say, “I think my toof is loose. Help me pull it. Ohhh, I can’t wait to get this toof out. It really is ready.” I always oblige and check this alleged loose tooth. And I always find a tooth that is no closer to falling out than a monkey out of a banana tree. Regardless, I always look at him with excitement and say, “It’s very close. Just keep working on it.” He then runs off in a flurry of excitement. Usually off to tell his big brother about all the loot the tooth fairy will be bringing in exchange for this elusive tooth.

By BECKY ANDREWS

It comes up a few times a year. When one of my boys is getting in trouble for mishandling a video game, leaving wet towels on the floor or not putting their dirty clothes in the hamper, the suspect will look at me with big blue eyes puddle in tears and say, “I knew you didn’t love me best! You always take his side! You’ll never love me best!”

Because of this I have decided to finally tell my children which one I actually love the best.

Well, I hate to admit it, but I’m back on the crack.

A year ago, I was completely addicted to it. Consumed by it! I’d wake up and the first thing I’d do was find my phone, check my emails and texts and then stumble to the coffee maker.

My children remained in the state of terror as I drove down Coles Ferry trying to text, drive and call out spelling words all at the same time.

It was a bad day. A long week at work, argument with my husband about household chores (This one NEVER gets old!), silent treatment from my 10-year-old because I said no to a sleepover (He asked me right in front of the kid! That’s a no-no in this house), and to top it all off I had managed to gain 3 pounds thanks in part to the mood calming ingredients in Dunkin’ Donuts. I was thankful it was Friday. The weekends just seem a little easier when I can face it with family, even if we’re not speaking or arguing.

This Friday morning rush seemed especially chaotic. I had too much to do and was feeling sorry for myself. I loaded the kids in the car and started the approach to school and business meetings. When the side door to the mini van opened my youngest, as always said,

By ANGEL KANE
Wilson Living Magazine

Saturday morning as I walked around my house, room by room…I was in a state of deep depression.

My house, my home, my hearth, the place I come to for peace and comfort - was a FREAKIN  mess!!!

Four weeks prior, the lovely lady who’d been helping me keep the house nice and neat….deserted me! Claiming she was moving out of town. When my eldest, who is slowly learning the ways of the world, heard about it, she wisely noted,

Many years ago women would gather in living rooms across America in the name of sanity, fellowship and most of all, Tupperware. This party has now evolved into something with a little more pizzazz, a little more excitement, a little more… alcohol. In the early years of home based parties several topics were off limits. You didn’t dare talk about private family matters and the only alcohol being consumed by some of these housewives was behind the closed door of “mom’s sewing room.” At least that’s what I’ve heard.

We are not our mother’s daughters. Most of us 30 and 40 something wives and mothers openly discuss taboo topics that make our moms cringe. We talk to our children about safe sex, politics and drugs. Not that our way is better than our mothers, it just fits the times better.

I’m one of those people.

I watch the weather - religiously. And I think there is something seriously wrong with those of you who don’t.

Be it a thunderstorm, flood or blizzard - I’m never caught off-guard. In fact, Lisa Patton is one of my very best friends. (One of these days I hope to meet her.) And you are a dead man if you try to change the channel before I get to watch her.

In fifth grade, I was crowned the winner of the class spelling bee. This meant I was to represent my class in the school wide spelling bee. To say that my win was a complete flook or is it fluke or maybe even phluke - -- was an understatement. (Have you figured out how this ends?)

When school was called off for Thursday and it was only Wednesday afternoon (before the first snowflake made an appearance), I knew it was time to fly into action and buy up all the provisions my family would need to make it through the night and up until at least 10 am the following day.

Becky and I have been playing a fun little game for a couple of years now. She calls me about once a week and invites me to go run with her. I say NO, we laugh and then the next week she calls me again.